THE SCOOP

Redman, the news-editor of the Morning Star, has sent two journalists, Oliver and Johnson, to investigate a murder.

The telephone began again in the news-room—loudly, insistently.

“Yes—Morning Star—news-editor here—who’s that?”

“Oliver speaking from Victoria. The dead man in the telephone booth is Johnson. Stabbed in the back. Just over the heart. Same sort of wound as in the Jumbles murder. His notes have been stolen and so has the weapon he was bringing with him. There was no weapon on the body either. The murderer must have followed him to suppress his evidence. I am carrying on.”

“Good God!” said Redman. “Johnson’s killed. The Jumbles murderer has got him.”

He paused for a moment in a sort of consternation. Then, the journalist’s ruling instinct took the upper hand. His fingers flew to the buzzers.

“Well, that’s our story. Send Simmonds up at once. Tell the comps to stand by. Peter, take this down.”

He dictated the story urgently, eagerly, triumphantly. The caption-writer’s pencil flew over the paper, roughing out the headlines:

“Morning star” Reporter stabbed

Jumbles Murderer Loose in London

Slays Journalist to Suppress Damning Clue

Porter Finds Body in Telephone Box

Redman nodded. “Get this down—push it along—send Bill up here—see if there’s a photograph of Johnson in the place. Here, Matthews—go round and get a story from his mother if he’s got one. See if he’s got a girl. Get her story. Hurry up, there—don’t stand about.”

Bill, the foreman-printer, stood upin the high gallery, looking down upon the machines that were the pride of his life. It was eleven o’clock. He raised his hands to the switch.

“Ready, down there?”

“Ready.”

“Let her go.”

The switch clicked down. With a steady and increasing roar the machines sprang to life. The paper reeled out under the rollers. The tall building shivered, throbbed, shuddered into one long thunder of reverberation.

Rumbling and clanking in the pride of their fantastic circulation, two million Morning star sang together; they shouted for joy. They had got their scoop, after all.

Dorothy L. SAYERS, The Scoop (1983) in The Scoop and Behind the Screen